On nights like this, with her father occupied among the usual mix of business associates and social acquaintances (with much overlap and intermingling between the two), Ellen can easily slip away and be quickly forgotten under the roar of conversation and clinks of glass. The garden draws her as it always has, safer here in the shadows of the few lit torchlights, untethered from the eyes and ears that seemed to follow her every move inside the vast manse.
The cold's touch on her cheek is gentle, soothing against the overwhelm that wraps against the back of her neck like a thick, wrapped stole. She isn't as practiced as the others at this sort of thing, accompanying her father to Hamburg for only a few months at a time and only starting quite recently, stepping into her mother's place. The sensible choice, she knows, would be to stay inside, to gossip and socialize in an effort to weave herself deeper into the city's mercantile elite. Yet the thought of it feels untenable most nights.
She has no intention of vanishing entirely, needing only a moment, perhaps two, to steady herself before returning. With any luck she can time it to reenter the madness just as the bell for supper rings.
"Oh—"
A rush of warmth rises back to her cheek as she realizes she has been found in her hiding place. Her hands fold at her waist to gather herself, her mind taking a moment to catch up to the man's apology, rough first in language she cannot understand, and then one she can, albeit accented. Each social event draws a variety of exotic guests, invitations extended both to honor their pursuits and to allow their hosts a chance at quiet one-upmanship.
"You're one of the Englishmen. The explorers of the ice."
Crozier pauses, giving himself a moment to determine if he should politely make an excuse to reverse if he's accidentally intruded. No one else out here; something of a kindred spirit taking a moment, perhaps, or maybe he's just missed another guest bolting for cover before being discovered. Seems clear enough.
"Be an odd choice for a changeling if I weren't," he says, faint humor in his voice. Who knows if he's mangled that sentence or not, or if he's even using the right word for changeling. It's fine, his jokes are bad in any language, and probably should have gone a canned and standard Did the uniform give it away? Alas. Moving on, he confirms: "I am, yes. Captain Crozier. I don't believe we were introduced."
Which means she's not one of their host's wives, more likely a daughter or lady's companion. He briefly thinks of Sophia, stuck somewhere attending Lady Jane and trying to avoid her uncle's patronizing disdain about the way she's come to overshadow his absent daughter. But it's what she prefers, having soundly declined the new Lady Ross' invitation (among other things), and he has no business meditating on it any further.
For all of his speech's rougher edges, the lightness of the joke squeezes at something in her chest, tugging the corner of her mouth into a faint smile. My little changeling girl, her father had affectionately called her when she was a child, vanishing for hours only to be found half-lost in grasses taller than her head, speaking of things that had not yet come to pass as if they were distant memories. It has been years since Ellen has heard the word used in such a light, whimsy way, not since her intuitions and dreams had turned darker into an unnatural strangeness that is barely tolerated.
The captain's introduction triggers an instinctual curtsey, practiced and precise, even if it cannot be entirely seen in the darkness of the evening.
"Fräulein Eggers," she says, straightening back to her full posture. Even if she had managed to stay put indoors among the bustling crowd, there likely still would not have been a meeting, content to observe without needing to wedge herself unnaturally into interactions. "The claims on your attention inside have no doubt kept you well occupied. If only they knew that this spot would provide the best chance to steal a moment of your time." Somewhere deeper in the house, laughter spills over the sound of a cork popping.
He inclines his head, shoulders leaning in slightly along with, mannerly. (He thinks. Fairly certain it's the same here, and it would be wildly inappropriate for him to do anything like extend a hand.) Well met, well met, as he attempts to mentally place which man inside might be Herr Eggers, if he should know anything about the family's trade, or positions of importance; a lost cause. Doesn't matter where, he has no head for social networking.
"You're free to steal away, Fraulein," he pronounces it awfully flat, forgive him, "though I fear my dry perspectives on sailing aren't any more interesting when I can breathe properly."
His tone is easygoing, because this is a perfectly fine event and everyone has been very kind and welcoming. Crozier appreciates more than he imagined he might, in fact— the Admiralty was initially deeply unhappy about the idea of indulging in these events in foreign countries, feverishly protective of any potential military intelligence to be sifted out of exploratory ventures. But the reception to purely scientific topics has been enthusiastic. Not as enthusiastic as the desire to hear about adventuring, of course, but fortunately Captain Ross is deft as anything at describing those, even through a translator.
"Is there much of a garden to walk through, out here?"
There is a moment of hesitation, the usual binding constraints of morality and expectation that lay in stark contrast to the pursuit of more time in an even more private setting between a man and an unmarried woman. Ellen is aware of all the kinds of scandal that may be inflicted upon her (her, not likely him, and even if so, he has a handy escape route.) But the refusal does not come when she reaches for it. A whisper in her mind tells her they will not be found.
Ellen inclines her head toward the path from she came from.
"This way."
Gravel softly crunches under her steps as she turns toward the darker edge of the courtyard where the garden begins to take its shape. The noise of the house thins to a distant, harmless murmur, as if they have passed behind a veil. Summer has long since withdrawn from the garden, late blooms clinging stubbornly to the hedges, trees once abundant with fruit now a crooked mangle of nearly bare limbs. Somewhere unseen, the sound of water slips through a fountain.
"It is.. difficult to inquire about a place that I can barely fathom," she admits. Frozen miles of silent nothingness at the end of the Earth.
"It must be a good place to disappear to. And breathe."
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no subject
The cold's touch on her cheek is gentle, soothing against the overwhelm that wraps against the back of her neck like a thick, wrapped stole. She isn't as practiced as the others at this sort of thing, accompanying her father to Hamburg for only a few months at a time and only starting quite recently, stepping into her mother's place. The sensible choice, she knows, would be to stay inside, to gossip and socialize in an effort to weave herself deeper into the city's mercantile elite. Yet the thought of it feels untenable most nights.
She has no intention of vanishing entirely, needing only a moment, perhaps two, to steady herself before returning. With any luck she can time it to reenter the madness just as the bell for supper rings.
"Oh—"
A rush of warmth rises back to her cheek as she realizes she has been found in her hiding place. Her hands fold at her waist to gather herself, her mind taking a moment to catch up to the man's apology, rough first in language she cannot understand, and then one she can, albeit accented. Each social event draws a variety of exotic guests, invitations extended both to honor their pursuits and to allow their hosts a chance at quiet one-upmanship.
"You're one of the Englishmen. The explorers of the ice."
no subject
"Be an odd choice for a changeling if I weren't," he says, faint humor in his voice. Who knows if he's mangled that sentence or not, or if he's even using the right word for changeling. It's fine, his jokes are bad in any language, and probably should have gone a canned and standard Did the uniform give it away? Alas. Moving on, he confirms: "I am, yes. Captain Crozier. I don't believe we were introduced."
Which means she's not one of their host's wives, more likely a daughter or lady's companion. He briefly thinks of Sophia, stuck somewhere attending Lady Jane and trying to avoid her uncle's patronizing disdain about the way she's come to overshadow his absent daughter. But it's what she prefers, having soundly declined the new Lady Ross' invitation (among other things), and he has no business meditating on it any further.
no subject
The captain's introduction triggers an instinctual curtsey, practiced and precise, even if it cannot be entirely seen in the darkness of the evening.
"Fräulein Eggers," she says, straightening back to her full posture. Even if she had managed to stay put indoors among the bustling crowd, there likely still would not have been a meeting, content to observe without needing to wedge herself unnaturally into interactions. "The claims on your attention inside have no doubt kept you well occupied. If only they knew that this spot would provide the best chance to steal a moment of your time." Somewhere deeper in the house, laughter spills over the sound of a cork popping.
no subject
"You're free to steal away, Fraulein," he pronounces it awfully flat, forgive him, "though I fear my dry perspectives on sailing aren't any more interesting when I can breathe properly."
His tone is easygoing, because this is a perfectly fine event and everyone has been very kind and welcoming. Crozier appreciates more than he imagined he might, in fact— the Admiralty was initially deeply unhappy about the idea of indulging in these events in foreign countries, feverishly protective of any potential military intelligence to be sifted out of exploratory ventures. But the reception to purely scientific topics has been enthusiastic. Not as enthusiastic as the desire to hear about adventuring, of course, but fortunately Captain Ross is deft as anything at describing those, even through a translator.
"Is there much of a garden to walk through, out here?"
no subject
Ellen inclines her head toward the path from she came from.
"This way."
Gravel softly crunches under her steps as she turns toward the darker edge of the courtyard where the garden begins to take its shape. The noise of the house thins to a distant, harmless murmur, as if they have passed behind a veil. Summer has long since withdrawn from the garden, late blooms clinging stubbornly to the hedges, trees once abundant with fruit now a crooked mangle of nearly bare limbs. Somewhere unseen, the sound of water slips through a fountain.
"It is.. difficult to inquire about a place that I can barely fathom," she admits. Frozen miles of silent nothingness at the end of the Earth.
"It must be a good place to disappear to. And breathe."